


to seek a witcher's warmth

by carefulren



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Huddling For Warmth, Hypothermia, M/M, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt, Whump, bc im pretty sure it wasnt an established medical condition, but no actual mentions of the word hypothermia, until like the 19th century lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:07:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22459984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carefulren/pseuds/carefulren
Summary: Beauty is pain is Jaskier's sworn mantra... that is until he's travelling north with Geralt, the temperature is plummeting, and his clothes are doing nothing to keep him warm.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 461





	to seek a witcher's warmth

Jaskier values fashion, believing that a pristine outer appearance covered in reds and blues, sequins and ruffles, will only further encourage strangers to inquire about his personality, his inner being that’s just waiting to shine with his outer being.

Though eye-catching, his wardrobe isn’t designed to fight against any element that’s not a bright, clear sky that supports a pleasantly warm temperature. His jackets are almost as thin as his shirts, most unable to button up, serving more as an added accessory than a shield, and his pants, though comfortable, aren’t meant for anything other than a shining sun and a crisp, warm breeze.

Beauty is pain, a mantra he swears by, yet, when he and Geralt venture deeper north, with the temperature seeming to drop with each step, he’s beginning to wonder if he should alter his sworn statement, beauty is a balance of comfort and pain perhaps?

“Geralt,” he doesn’t mean to whine, or well, he does actually because he’s never felt so cold in all his life. The wind seems to have an aggravating way of slipping past his thin layers to bite at his skin, and he needs to hear Geralt’s rugged tone voice sympathy toward his discomfort. 

“Geralt,” he repeats, drawing out the word as he hugs himself, fingers digging into his arms hard enough to bruise, and Geralt’s steps finally falter, and he eases Roach to a slow stop before craning his neck to look over his shoulder. 

“I warned you” is all Geralt is willing to offer, a low grunt that carries not even the slightest hint of pity, and Jaskier hisses as a particularly strong gust of wind billows around him, brushing his hair and burning his skin. 

“You didn’t say it would be this cold,” Jaskier presses, bouncing on the balls of his feet between each trembling step. 

“You didn’t ask.” 

Jaskier scoffs, a puff of disbelief slipping past too-cold lips. “Shouldn’t you be a little more considerate to your very cold and very _human_ companion who’s _terribly_ miserable?”

Jaskier doesn’t miss the deep sigh that carries across the wind, and he keeps a firm gaze when Geralt turns to him with an arched brow.

“Sorry,” he mutters flatly. “Should I offer you one of my potions?” 

“Do you mean the odd magic potions that,” he pauses, gesturing weakly to his face, “do the incredibly frightening black eye thing? Won’t that kill a human?” 

“Probably,” Geralt says, and Jaskier rolls his eyes at the smirk that’s paired to the single word, and he shakes his head before he sucks in a sharp breath when another strong gust of wind slams against him. 

“You’re ins-sufferable,” he spits out, voice stuttering, and Geralt’s lips curl into a hint of a frown, and he drags his gaze back toward the path in front of him. 

“Just keep moving,” he mutters. “Keep your blood flowing.” 

“Easier said than done,” Jaskier mutters under his breath, tucking his chin to his chest in a poor attempt to burrow tightly against the frozen wind. 

He follows Geralt for three more hours, griping about the cold, about his feet, about how there aren’t enough medical studies exploring the symptoms leading up to literally freezing to death, but once the third hour hits, and the sun begins to sink, leaving only an impossibly cold wind that howls along a darkening sky, he finds it’s suddenly getting harder to think, to coordinate his mouth and tongue into coherent words. His mind’s growing a little slow, as if the wind’s slipping into his ears, his eyes, his nose, to numb his brain, and he cannot stop shivering no matter how much he walks.

He suddenly wishes he could go back to three hours prior, when the cold was still a pressing nuisance and not the dangerous, biting element that’s making it harder and harder to walk, to breathe, to think. He’s broken down to mentally chanting “left, right, left, right,” so lost in the unsteady repetition that he bumps into Geralt’s back, not aware that the Witcher’s come to a stop.

“S-sorry,” he chatters lowly, voice slurring around the single word, and Geralt steps to the side, moving from Jaskier’s direct line of sight so the bard can see the small cave he’s come across. 

Jaskier drinks in the sight with wide eyes, and he starts toward it, limbs struggling against the tight ice clinging to them. He fights against it, staggering, swaying, desperation driving him to get out of the wind, and he can’t help but huff out a trembling sigh of relief when the wind becomes nothing more than an echoing howl behind him.

“T-this is great,” he breathes out, voice contrasting his tense, throbbing muscles that are still shaking hard, and he moves slowly with Geralt when Geralt guides him against the wall with an unreadable expression. 

“Wait here,” he orders, pressing a large, warm hand to Jaskier’s cheek. 

Jaskier leans into the warm touch, craves it, grows desperate for it, but too soon, Geralt pulls his hand away and starts out of the cave, and Jaskier involuntarily whimpers, the small sound bringing the faintest tension to Geralt’s shoulders. He watches as Geralt disappears, eyes lingering out the mouth of the cave, before he pulls his gaze away and curls into himself, drawing his knees to his chest and hugging his legs tightly, a low groan slipping past his lips as he shivers roughly.

He dozes off, mind slipping in and out of consciousness, always pulling himself back to when he fades, and he’s just blinking slowly awake for the fourth time when Geralt returns, dropping a pile sticks in front of him.

Jaskier’s eyes are drooping, but he doesn’t miss the quick, steady hand motions as Geralt moves through a sign that brings a small blast of flame that takes to the sticks before him rapidly.

The warmth that hits Jaskier is somehow slow yet far too fast all at once. He wants to move as close as possible to it, but he also wants to recoil because it almost hurts against his icy, raw skin. He hisses, but his eyes only reflect pure, unfiltered relief when he pulls his almost desperate gaze to Geralt’s amber eyes. 

“You’ll warm up soon,” Geralt tells him, and Jaskier jerks through a nod, reaching two shaking hands out toward the flames. 

“T-thank you,” he mutters, swallowing thickly, and Geralt only nods toward him, taking a seat on the ground across from him. 

Jaskier sucks in the heat from the fire for two hours, yet, concerning, even to him, he can’t seem to shake the chills that have him shivering, teeth clacking together loudly; however, to his faint surprise, Geralt doesn’t complain. Instead, the Witcher keeps a narrow, trained gaze to Jaskier, eyes almost glowing against the light of the flames.

“Jaskier,” he finally calls out, and Jaskier rips a quick gaze from the fire back to Geralt, frowning deeply. 

“I k-know,” he starts, voice taking to a panicked tone. “I’m loud, and I’m t-trying, but I just can’t seem to get w-warm.” His voice is shaking hard, both from the cold that’s unwilling to break the relentless grip around him and from the growing spark of fear that Geralt’s going to drop him off at the next town and leave him behind. 

He sucks in a quiet gasp when Geralt gets to his feet, eyes following the Witcher’s every move, only widening when Geralt eases to the ground beside him.

“You’re still cold,” he says, a statement, voice thick with uncharacteristic concern that Jaskier just barely catches hold to. 

“Yes,” he breathes out, a sharp shiver shooting up his spine to punctuate his point. He’s considering how best to describe the burning chill that won’t free him when Geralt leans back and tugs his shirt off in one, quick motion, hands then moving to his pants. 

Jaskier’s sure he’s losing it, his mind succumbing to the cold, his brain frosting over, but then Geralt’s reaching toward him, tugging at his thin jacket, and Jaskier snaps back, his first quick movement in hours.

“Geralt, what in the world--”

“Strip,” Geralt orders, and when Jaskier shakes his head quickly, he sighs, briefly pinching the bridge of his nose. “To warm you up.” 

“Forgive me,” Jaskier starts. “I’m n-not sure how less clothes--”

“--I’m not trying to warm your clothes,” Geralt interrupts, a deep sigh slipping past his lips as he reaches over to cup one hand to Jaskier’s far-too-chilled neck. “I’m trying to warm your skin to raise your body temperature.” 

Jaskier can’t argue against the logic, despite how unspecific it is, and he holds Geralt’s gaze for an endless moment, conflict coloring his eyes, contrasting the trust bleeding from Geralt’s, until he finally breaks the gaze and makes quick work of stripping from his clothes. Geralt helps him when his shaking hands struggle with his pants, but soon enough, he’s stripped down, and Geralt’s spreading their clothes on the ground and climbing on top of them, motioning for Jaskier to do the same.

Slowly, Jaskier crawls toward the makeshift bed, and before he can even consider what position would seem best considering the current situation, Geralt’s pulling him until they’re lying chest to chest, with Jaskier’s back to the fire.

Jaskier doesn’t breathe for what feels like endless seconds, too afraid to inhale, to move, to blink, but Geralt begins rubbing large, warm hands up and down his back, and his body’s need for warmth breaks past his fear. He lets out a trembling breath and buries his face against Geralt’s neck.

“You are cold,” Geralt comments, concern once again coloring his tone, and Jaskier hums against the small vibration from Geralt’s rough vibrato 

He’s growing tired, still shivering, but his muscles are beginning to loosen up some, and he’s beginning to regain feeling in small doses. “Is it inappropriate for me to fall asleep pressed against the sculpted, naked body of a famous Witcher?” he asks, voice low, thick, exhausted, and Geralt only growls softly in response.

“Shall I compose an intimate ballad detailing our closeness after a perilous journey through a blinding blizzard?” 

“There’s no blizzard,” Geralt grunts, eyeing the dark, yet clear sky outside. 

Jaskier hums once more, eyes growing impossibly heavy. “Sure, but the more danger, the more coin.”

“Go to sleep, Jaskier.” 

Geralt’s tone has shifted to a familiar gripe of annoyance that Jaskier can’t help but smile softly out, and he hums through a few bars of “Toss A Coin to Your Witcher” as he nods off.

**Author's Note:**

> I kind of wanted to somehow work this prompt I got into my "a witcher in need" series, but I also kind of wanted to write Jaskier and Geralt outside of the relationship I'm establishing for them in the series. 
> 
> Also, I'm a sucker for good hypothermia prompt.
> 
> Come say hi or drop a prompt off on tumblr (@toosicktoocare) ! :)


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